


Son of Gotham

by whore4batfam (IdentityConstellations)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A death, Father son relationship, Gen, I mean Jason died once so, batfamily, gen - Freeform, some thematic violent content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdentityConstellations/pseuds/whore4batfam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragile. That’s his heart and he hates it. But it’s been broken before, so he might as well keep breaking it his way.<br/>(In which Jason meets Bruce on a rainy night, and it ends without violence. Just broken hearts and memories.)</p><p>COMPLETE, for now</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of Gotham

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedancingcrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedancingcrown/gifts).



_The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;_

_It rains, and the wind is never weary;_

_The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,_

_But at every gust the dead leaves fall,_

_And the day is dark and dreary._

* * *

Wet cobblestones.

Wet nose.

Jason swiped his dripping nose.

Damn, wet hand too.

Wet everything.

Wet eyes as well, but that was no matter. Don’t look at the pain, that was his motto. At least, that’s what helped in the street.

He shook raindrops from his leather jacket, wishing dreadfully for a cigarette. Anything to take the edge off (that was also his motto). He lit one, hands numb and chapped.

The city breathed like a sleeping monster. He could feel it, Gotham’s life seeping under his finger nails.

Lots of people thought him crazy, but he knew–KNEW–Gotham was alive. She was thought a cruel mistress, and perhaps was. Gotham never let go. But Jason felt in his bones, like rust and decay, how Gotham ached. Her children worked, fought, died like infernal hands atop a clock. Claws of time.

Jason kicked a loose stone. They were all susceptible to time. They were all susceptible to loss. They were all susceptible to pain.

Gotham most of all.

Sometimes he could hear her crying in the night. A wail in the wind. A frozen sob.

He could hear Gotham.

And shit this car has been following him for a while. Can’t a man in a leather jacket walk in the rain alone without suspicion?

Wait, that mental image was creepy.

Even so, Jason’s hand crept into his holster as he flicked cigarette ash into the night. The car’s lights were out. The only distinction of sound was the roll of tires in puddles. The street vigilante stopped and faced an abandoned shop, miming the action of lighting a cigarette. Jason clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth in hopes of removing the chill. He rubbed the cigarette between his fingers. The old window reflected the red tip.

The car braked about two feet back.

Jason took a puff. His hand slid down and cocked his gun.

One mississppi.

Two mississppi.

Three–

He spun around and pointed the firearm into his stalker’s face.

Lightning flashed.

Batman looked back at him.

Thunder rumbled.

They stood for a long moment.

The rain trickled in the background.

Finally Jason blinked and lowered his gun, shifting on the safety and placing it back in his holster. “Nice night,” he greeted hollowly.

…

The shot had rung clear, a toll of death echoing throughout the alley.

…

The familiar slope of his shoulders was comforting.

It was the same slope Jason reached for when he was twelve. And even as his hands got bigger, the shoulders still felt the same.

Solid. Dependable.  

Strong.

Sometimes, seeing him here, like this, he could just pretend…

“GCPD lines report a death in Crime Alley. Evidence links it to the Red Hood.”

Well, that’s what he gets for calling in politely.

Jason stepped back, teal eyes sizing up his former mentor.

(Father?)

The water from the roofs trailed off, pooling beneath his black boots.

The lamplights flickered on and off, reflecting their figures in the water.

“I see,” he murmured. He wished he had brought his helmet along. He wished Batman would not look at him like that. He wished he would not care what Batman thought. He wished…

He wished a lot of things.

…

“Sing to me, boy,” the old man asked, voice tinged with a wheeze. It lingered of death.

Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. Questioned, “You do know that I’m a criminal, right? The Red Hood?”

“And I’ve killed more men on D-Day than I can count.”

That sobered the young man.

“What would you like to hear?” he said placatingly, shouldering off his leather jacket and laying it on the man. He looked so small under it.

“A good one.”

“Ah, all right then.” He sat back and thought for moment. “Over in Crime Alley,” Jason began, voice raspy.

The man sent a weak smile, placing his shaking hands upon his lap.

“Many years ago,” Jason continued. “My mother sang a song to me, in tones so sweet and low.”

The dying man closed his eyes.

“Just a simple little ditty, in her good old Irish way. And I’d give the— _world_ ,” Jason’s throat closed.

He clenched his fist.

Damn.

…

_“Jason. Jay! You’ll be late for school!”_

_A thump sounded and the six year old appeared on the last stair step. Displeasure furrowed on his little brow._

_“I don’ wanna go,” he growled like a grouchy little bear cub._

_She threw her head back and laughed, soft brown hair falling off her shoulders. Jay took a moment to admire her in the pale morning light. She was a queen, eyes as bright as a morning glory that grew on the roof next door. Catherine Todd dragged him closer, wrapping his red scarf around his neck. “You have to go to school,” she told him with a smile. “If you don’t go, how can we read together?”_

_“I can read,” he protested._

_“What about math?” she responded, buttoning up his coat._

_He evaded the last button, which she always tried to button and he always disliked being buttoned (it felt funny against his throat). “I can do math.”_

_“And science?”_

_He shrugged._

_She sighed. “Jay baby, school is important. You’ll want to learn once you get there, you always do.”_

_Jason tugged at her hands. “I want to stay with you,” he whispered._

_Catherine tilted her head and met his eyes. She pinched his chin. “I’ll be okay today,” she whispered. She almost withdrew, but Jason kept his hold on her hands._

_“Promise?”_

_Please be okay. Not for always, just today. Today be okay. Please._

_She smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes were sad._

_(They were always sad.)_

_He should stay._

_He needed to stay._

_She needed him to stay._

_He opened his mouth—_

_“I’ll be all right, Jay,” she assured him. Before he could reply, she twirled him around and encompassed him into a big hug, arms saving him from stumbling over his too-big boots (“You’ll grow into them, Jay baby.”)_

_His feet twisted in the loose leather. Yeah, he’ll grow into them. In about twenty years._

_“Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” she whispered to him, soft cheek against his._ My heart is within you _._

_Jason placed his head on her shoulder, breathing her in deeply._

_She withdrew._

_(She always did.)_

_“There,” she remarked in satisfaction. “Now you’re dressed with a hug to keep you warm.” Catherine stood, urging him to the doorway._

_The six year old shuffled in his winter wear, taking her offered hand._

…

Jason cleared his throat and proceeded shakily, “If I could hear that song of hers today.”

“Eileen,” the man whispered, cracked lips saying the name as if a prayer. Jason clasped the frail shoulder warmly, gaining strength in his song as it rose before him like a blown out candle wick.

…

_“Hush now, don’t you cry,” Mom whispered. She held him close, swaying. His head hurt. He didn’t want to open his eyes. Everything was too hard. At least, to a three year old with the flu._

_He clenched his jaw painfully, laying his head against his mother’s shoulder._

_She stood there, humming and swaying, the entire night._

…

“So did you.”

“Did I what?” Jason set his jaw. “Kill him?”

The man did not move.

Jay peeked at him, smile too wide and rueful.

A beat passed.

“No,” he finally replied carelessly, seeing he would not receive a poisonous reaction. Like he had hoped. (Expected?) “I don’t kill ninety year old men.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground and withdrew another from his jacket pocket. The match was struck against the wall, lighting the little white stick. “But I must admit, that’s cold.” He puffed slowly, smoke curling between them. “Even coming from you.”

Batman did not reply.

After a long silence, the masked vigilante rumbled softly, “That’s your third pack today.”

“What of it?” Jason shot back.

The man was silent.

Jason smirked, shaking his head. “Good ole’ B,” he mocked. “Insuring proper health, even for his enemies.”

“You’re not my enemy.”

“Aren’t I?”

The gloved hand tremored.

Oh.

Jason shifted.

He had not meant to do that.

Jay sighed in exhaustion, cigarette between his teeth.

…

He did not know how long he had sung when the man began going into death adrenaline.

His gasps grated on the young man’s ears.

They were too familiar.

“Hey, hey, listen,” Jason gently instructed him, holding up the man’s feeble head. “My mother once told me that storms will always be here. But sometimes…” he trailed off, eyes lost in a forgotten memory.

…

_It had been a bad day._

_There had been no reading or dancing or even cooking. Just the clang, clang, clangclangclangclang of sorrow beating between their pulses._

_They sat on the fire escape, bare legs curled against the biting metal._

_She was smoking._

_The stars could be seen tonight._

**_(A blanket of dreams._ **

**_Never hers._ **

**_Never his.)_ **

_“Jay,” she announced, voice clogged with leftover tears. “Jay baby, I wanna tell you something.”_

_He looked at her, a woman made of mist, exhausted by life. She was not meant for this. She was not supposed to be this._

_His mother brought the cigarette to her pink lips._

_(A fire against flowers, extinguishing what little was left.)_

_“The storms will always be here. But sometimes,” and here she took a puff and slowly exhaled. The smoke climbed up the sky, a gray hand reaching, reaching, r e a c h i n g. Catherine’s eyes followed, crystallized in thought. “Sometimes, Jason, we see the stars.”_

_The seven year old scooted closer. She looked down at him and smiled, prodding him with her elbow._

_“And that has to be worth it,” the mother told him, sliding her cool fingers through his curls. She froze. “_ Is _worth it.”_

_Her grip was too tight._

_He did not mind._

_As long as she held onto something._

…

“…Sometimes, we see the stars. And that’s worth it.” He smiled ruefully at the man. “There is an old saying that the stars are people who have died and those are their souls shining in the sky. That they guide us, waiting for their children to come home. So don’t be afraid, old man. You’re just going home. You’re going to watch over us. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, eh?”

The man sputtered a laugh, but choked on his receding breath. His chest expanded slowly.

Jason stroked the man’s hair, lowering him upon the ground. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured.

The old man—Bobby, was it?—tilted his head as if to nod. His breath was silent.

Jason met his eyes, though the man had stopped seeing. He smiled, puff of air echoing from his mouth. “You’re going home,” he promised.

…

_Mom wasn’t there any more._

_Jason dragged his palm over her skin._

_It was losing its warmth._

…

“You’re going home.”

…

(Where is home?)

…

Batman turned to go.

“Wait.”

…

_Laughter spilled out of the study._

_“Wait. Wait, B,” the boy giggled. He tugged on the man’s business sleeve. “And then what happened?”_

_Bruce cleared his throat, fighting off a smirk. He was recounting the latest office shenanigan, all the while pushing the twelve year old off to bed. The twelve year old was, of course, resisting. Jason yanked on the sleeve once more, losing his balance. Bruce caught Jason’s shoulders as he tripped over the rug, lowering the child onto the ottoman near his feet. Jason smiled._

_(Love so easily won, so easily given.)_

_The man settled against his chair, upholstery embracing him back into its hold._

_“And then he also went in…”_

_Jay collapsed against the ottoman, body shaking silently with laughter. Bruce laughed also, watching the black curls bounce in the firelight._

…

Batman turned around.

(He always did.)

Jason brushed back his hair, stubborn white piece pasted against his forehead. “Where are they going to bury him?” he asked. The words felt odd against his mouth, like gunpowder between his front teeth.

The vigilante shifted as if he was surprised.

(Why would he be?)

(Where is he?)

(Where’s Bruce?)

“Gotham Veteran Memorial Cemetery,” the man replied, voice clipped and sharp.

Oh.

Not with Eileen, then.

The thunder crashed, and Jason jumped back. His leather jacket brushed the pasty glass.

He cursed, slipping on the uneven pavement. The young man threw his cigarette down in the upset, flame being extinguished in the mud.  

Stupid clumsy idiot—

Jason peeked up at the man. His dark, wet eyelashes crowded his vision but he looked on all the same.

Waiting.

“You always used to hide in the cupboard during thunderstorms,” Bruce mused, smile glinting off nature’s light festival.

Ah.

There he is.

Jason adjusted his gloves, reaching to snap the elastic band against his wrist. “Who says I’m not hiding?”

…

_Cr-a-ck!_

_Lightning raced across the velvet sky, outlining the priceless objects. Bruce paced through the room silently amid the thundering weather outside. The oak tree—Jason’s favorite—tapped against the window, checking in like a worrying neighbor on her small human._

_Bruce lifted a brow. That was a hint. He was a detective, a man devoted to evidence. Yet he had learned that with Jason, certain things that shouldn’t happen did. Like an archway that was not there before opened. Or shadows that lead to new pathways, even though Bruce had explored the city fifty times over._

_Or a tree as a friend._

_He tilted his head, gazing at the large plant life. It shivered in the wind. Then, as if on its own accord, a loose branch gently slipped the latch, falling inside. Bruce’s gaze followed where it pointed, falling on a large bureau. His leather adorned shoes never creaked as he knelt beside the lower right door. He listened. Shallow breathing hushed in the wooden cupboard._

_He frowned grimly and popped open the door._

_Crash!_

_Jason sat inside, limbs shrunken in on themselves. His pale face glowed in the darkness, teal eyes moving wildly. The small hands tucked around his knees shook with his erratic heartbeat._

_His poor boy._

_The twelve year old heaved a gravelly breath. “I’m all right,” the boy told him, white lips firmly pressed together._

_Bruce lowered himself upon the ground. “I’d like it if you came out,” he said honestly, without a bit of derision._

_Jason hesitated._

_The father figure opened the door a bit wider._

…

The elastic band snapped against his wrist, cutting his focus.

“…I’m still remembering, you know.”

A long moment settled over them, like mist before a mountain range.

“You’ve got quite the upper hand.” Jason cleared his throat. “The memories and timelines are jagged and sharp. You’ve got a smooth plane of the past. And I…” His eyes roved over the dark building forms. “Well, I’ve got a mixed bag. Surprise, surprise.”

…

 _“Jason,” the blonde woman—Sheila, mother,_ traitor _— sobbed._

_He lifted his head. Oh. It hurt. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see._

_It hurt it hurt it **hurt**._

_He opened his mouth but only garbling came out. His jaw. It was broken. His teeth were smashed too._

_He tried speaking again. His tongue caught the tip of his tooth, bleeding once more. His eye felt wet. It was drooping. His cheekbone was shattered._

_Jason felt stupid. He could feel his ribs jostle but he was worried about his face. Bruce wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of him._

_The second father to abandon a son. To abandon Jason._

_A second mother to abandon him._

_(Why did you have to go?)_

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

…

“You know what’s funny,” he mused, teal eyes thoughtful. And this was Jay. This was him, speaking and allowing his soul to peek out of his metallic anger. “Is that they all assume I want forgiveness. From whom? They specifically single out you. But, B,” and he lowered his shields, wan smile crossing his face, “no one ever asks if you want forgiveness from me. And why should they? You are you. Brilliant, generous, strong. And I am me. Minuscule, sensitive, broken.” He flicked his cigarette. “Pathetic. More dead than alive, as is. Oh,” he met Batman’s rigid face, “that wasn’t a jibe. Not tonight.”

The rain trickled against the roofs.

“The boy who ran. The boy who could not love properly,” he sighed, summarizing himself. “The boy who could not forgive.” He took a sharp intake of breath. “Did you tell them that?”

Bruce did not respond.

“Hm? Well, you should. We both have a responsibility to them, you know.”

Walking mistake. Walking sorrow. Walking vengeance.

Walking death.

“But I want to live,” he whispered to the rain, desire splashing down between the street cracks.

…

_“Never give up,” she told him firmly, looking into his clear blue eyes._

_“Ma,” he began._

_“No, Jason Peter.” She knelt down, insisting, “I need you to promise me. You never give up. You belong here. You are meant to be here. No one ever says to the stars, ‘What gives you the right to exist?’ You are made of stardust, Jason. You have the right. Promise me you’ll never give up.”_

_He bit his lip._

_She always gave up. Just would shut down. And she always told him to fight, fight no matter what because she just flees._

_Except it’s inside her head._

_Sometimes Jason gets to join her there._

_It’s a pretty place._

_Sharp._

_Like broken glass._

_But that can’t be helped, what with Gotham._

_“Promise me.”_

…

“Promise.” He closed his hot eyelids.

Bruce gazed at his child (in pain, so much pain).

He stepped forward.

The thunder growled warningly.

Gotham looked after her son.

Bruce clenched his jaw.

_(Never his_

_Never his.)_

“I’d say send in the clowns,” Jay murmured. He met his eyes. “But we’ve already been through that.”

The raindrops echoed in the night, surreptitiously catching the light like fallen stars.

Jason wiped his nose again and looked across.

Batman was back.

“The man—”

"Bobby,” the criminal interrupted. “Bobby O'Callahan, and his wife was named Eileen.”

Jason had gone through the dead man’s wallet and made sure identification was there.

It was.

It was blood-soaked, but it was there.

“Bobby,” Batman continued, voice low, “was shot.”

Jason did not reply.

…

He had stayed until Bobby was as tight with death. He released the man’s cold form with numb fingers, pain ricocheting up his veins from clenching.

_(Red dripping down his arm._

_Ha. Ha. Ha.)_

…

“It was with a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. The gun was found in a trashcan two miles away from the crime site.” Batman crowded his space, and Jason let him. The white visors narrowed. “You saw them.”

…

When Jason found him, he was leaning over a large metal garbage bin, feet twisted in disarray. His frail chest was stained with that wretched dark color.

“They…” Bobby gasped, struggling to place the words in his mouth, “wanted to…eat.”

…

_“Do you think tomorrow is a lie, Jay?”_

_“…What are you talking about, Mom?”_

_“Just thinking, really.”_

_The onions sizzled, crackling in the tiny kitchen._

…

Bobby’s eyes were clear in a tell-tale way.

Jason had seen it before.

“Help them,” he gurgled to the criminal. His gnarly hands tried to grip Jay’s black t-shirt, but fell away weakly. “Hungry.”

…

_Jason’s throat felt like a wolf, slashing and ravaging the pink insides._

_Fenrir lived in his stomach._

_(Bleeding teeth, punctured soul.)_

_His head buzzed as he gnawed on thrown out fast food paper packages._

_Breakfast food. And was that sausage?_

_The eleven year old sighed in contentment, laying his head against the grimy wall._

…

“Help them.”

The Red Hood nodded, smoothly caressing the white hair from the wrinkled brow.

…

Batman was still looking at him.

Jason broke away from his presence, stepping back against the glass store front.

“Don’t ask me,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“Hood, you must—”

"DON’T ASK ME!” He heaved a deep breathe, rolling the tension back in his shoulders. “…Don’t ask me.”

His lips were moving as he stared at the cigarette burning to a stub in his hand, never saying words.

He won’t tell.

_(“Shhh. Shhh. You like it.”_

_He doesn’t._

_He **doesn’t**.)_

Jason doesn’t kill teenagers on the wrong path.

Doesn’t mean he won’t beat sense into them.

Bruce gazed at his child, hopelessness filling his chest like water gorging upon a sinking sun.

Out of all of them, why did it have to be him?

Jason was just so focused on life, a true soul that had to breathe every moment of life.

That’s why it hurt Bruce so much.

Because Jay was life.

And now his son can’t remember most of his life with him.

And Bruce has flashbacks that Jason won’t know ever about.

And it hurt.

Because he lost someone right in front of him.

…

_(Jason studying books well into the night._

_Sitting on the roof, looking at the stars._

_Gazing up at the Wayne Industries lights, commenting that they look like an illuminated centipede.)_

_(Reading the paper over Bruce’s shoulder._

_Climbing trees._

_Trying to get close to the sun.)_

_(Singing under his breath before school._

_Sitting with Alfred, just talking._

_Alfred shared some of his war stories with him—stories he never even told Bruce, still. He trusted the boy infinitely.)_

_(But there was sharpness, and raw knuckles, and dirt and blood and pain and **vengeance**.)_

_(But there was the cheek against his chair, the shaking torso indicative of a child’s laughter, the gentle hands returning a bluebird to the nest.)_

_(In the garden with the butterflies, brushing against his elbows, dark lashes shadowed in the sunlight.)_

_(Dark lashes drenched in blood.)_

_(The concave side of his face)_

_(The irrepressible wide smile)_

…

Oh, **_why_** did it have to be Jay?

…

“Son,” he murmured, the endearment stuck in his throat like a frost-forged sword tip, “please.”

That set the young man off.

“I’m not your son!” he hollered, clenching so tightly that he carved bloody half-moons into his fists. Anything to keep him back from attacking. Because when he started, he couldn’t stop.

“You are!” Bruce roared back, stepping forward but stopping suddenly. He deflated, heart bursting like a popped balloon. He murmured into the raindrops, “You are mine, Jay.”

He tried to see him.

And Jason doesn’t know how to see himself. Is he a man? Must be. Must be? He doesn’t really feel age.

But it caused his blood to crackle like lightning when Bruce looked at him like he was still his little boy.

Like he was still his son.

Because how dare he.

How _dare_ he.

He has no right to him.

He gave him up.

He made that choice.

Just like Jason made his.

“I don’t belong to you! I don’t belong to anyone! I don’t even belong to this god-forsaken city!”’

Lightning crackled.

The wind picked up, shrieking between them.

Jason’s hands shook with his erratic heartbeat.

(Don’t you see me?)

…

 **_Drip drip drip_ ** _went the rain._

_It fell off Mom’s fingertips, plopping to the balcony._

**_Drip drip drip_ ** _went the sweat._

_It fell off Bruce’s shoulders, plopping to the practice mats._

**_Drip drip drip_ ** _went his blood._

_It fell off his broken nose, plopping to his crushed hands._

**_Drip drip drip_ ** _went the tears._

_They never fell._

…

Bruce looked at his boy—his _boy_. A child made of smoke, rust and metal and broken bones.

Broken heart.

He was not meant for this. He was not supposed to be this.

Jay brought the cigarette to his chapped lips.

_(A fire against flowers, extinguishing what little was left.)_

“Bury him at J. Wright Cemetery,” Jason sighed, body rigid like glass. “He’d want to be with Eileen.”

…

_“Oh, Jason, Jason, forgive me.”_

…

“And do me a favor.“ The young man drew out some money, bills fluttering to the soggy ground like dying sparrows. "Get them nice headstones. They really loved each other.”

He flipped on heel, disappearing and enshrouded within his mother city, hidden from Bruce’s grasp.

Son of Gotham.

…

**_(A blanket of dreams._ **

**_Never his._ **

**_Never his.)_ **


End file.
